


Punned Even Before Begun

by CravenWyvern



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Bad Coping Methods, Blood, Broken rib, Dark Flower Abuse, Death, Delusions, Dissociation, Gen, Hallucinations, I promise, I'm sure I was just writing an unstable lonely man getting comfort from an old guy with many regrets, Improper use of Dark Flowers, Infinity Used Incorrectly, It's really not that shippy everyone, Kind of AU, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Okay now for the serious tags, Old Writing, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Unfinished, Was kind of a practice run, i'm not finishing this, it would have had a happy ending if I had continued writing, lots of death, punctured lung
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10075757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: In a particularly bad timeline...(Old writing, so it's an unfinished story and not very good.)





	1. I'm Just Dying To Know

**Author's Note:**

> This had been the first fanfiction I had written since...well, since I was younger and tried my hand at Invader Zim stories.
> 
> I was quite proud if it, and have come to the decision to put it up on here, as a sort of second safeguard incase it gets deleted elsewhere.
> 
> I do not plan to complete it, though I'll put up the notes I had for the ending in the fourth chapter.
> 
> For the record, I wrote this before I did any extensive DS lore searching and before I had solid headcanons, and had only just started playing DS, thus having not completed Adventure Mode or unlocked all the characters. 
> 
> This unfinished story is not connected to my other works, though it helped me set the stage and get me going.

It had been easier in the beginning. That first day, not knowing anything about the world and feeling lost and confused, surrounded by grass and trees and a pale, watery sun. The man who had brought him here, by the use of some sort of black magic, a nonexistent art that was impossible and should not have been real, said a few things, a sentence or two before disappearing in a puff of smoke. Wilson hadn't heard what had been said then, in the very beginning, day one.

He had died that night, the darkness enveloping him and the hidden spider nest next door bursting with arachnids, all eager and hungry. They hadn't wasted time, not even letting him die before tearing into him; their poison was slow working, more paralysis and causing sluggish blood flow than anything else. It took his death to finally quiet his screaming.

Death was a natural, almost educational activity in this pale world. It taught Wilson about his mistakes and he tried his best to not repeat history, though he was an unlucky fellow and sometimes he died for almost no reason. Sometimes the thoughts and ghostly aches and pains overwhelmed him, the pressure crowding his head and making it pound with a terrible migraine. His thoughts, the silent sentences and words, would rush about, bang harshly and roughly in his skull and it would get worse, because for a second he’d remember and feel each death. They’d pile up, synchronized and crushing, full of raw pain and memory that’d drive him to his knees and leave him trembling, useless for the rest of the day, black spots and shadows flicking in his eyes and things moving around, startling sounds so close by, dreaded flashes of something touching him softly.

Each one of them hurt, especially in hindsight. Maybe it hadn’t felt too bad during it, back under the snow and ice and rain that muted the world and silenced his continually running mind, the cold sinking in to the point where everything was numb and so, so heavy, collapsing into a soft and bitingly sharp pile of snow and closing his eyes and drifting away, away to something void and of nothing and-

But waking from it was worst. Waking to sudden sunlight, to shocking warmth and the gleaming grass and the speech of a figure above him and suddenly drawing in a breath of warm air, banishing death oh so quickly. Everything ached, a memory of some foreign body and its break down, the wheezing in his chest as he tried to breath too fast or too deeply, pushing his lungs because the last breath he had taken was full of snow and cold and slow death.

He was always brand new, body back to the beginning, reset once more, no matter the true amount of damage he had taken. No matter the spiders, who’ve eaten him alive as well as kept him, paralyzed and sluggish as eggs hatched and baby spiders crawled in and out of his skin, nor the wolves, who’ve cracked his bones and torn him apart, racing opposite ways as they played with their pups over his gurgling body. No matter the larger beasts, the beefalo who’ve trampled and gored and broken him, the giants with their flattening feet and slobbering maws, the tallbirds and their hostile maternal instinct, the pigs and their kin and their outlandish rituals and moon cycles. The little creatures left their marks, the bees leaving him packed with oozing poison, the frogs with their touchy behavior that reared up and chased him with their slimy cold  
tongues, the penguins who've pecked and pulled at flesh for just a small offense.

And then there were the night things, the shadows that appeared under certain conditions. The figures were even less merciful and in most cases Wilson bled out from them. Their marks faded every time, even as he lay dying, but the blood loss and shock took its toll, and over and over Wilson wondered on how they hurt him, because it was his imagination, wasn’t it? And make believe monsters couldn’t hurt you, they surely could not, so what was causing his injuries and why did they fade oh so quickly? Sometimes he wondered if it was by his own hands, but he has done that before, by ax and glass and spear and blade and noose, any number of ways to escape a situation by his own will, to restart in a better environment, to shut his brain up for just a quick moment of relief.

There was one other death that Wilson actually feared. It didn’t make sense, couldn’t make sense, and every time he tried to think about it, to sort it out logically, it wore him down, grinded his head and made him feel crowded. The darkness didn’t bring any hulking monster out to tear him apart; no, it was much worse, an almost parasite that pulsed in him, awakened only by complete lack of light. He hated it, because the first few times he hadn't actually seen it, had only died in horrible pain, confused and lost. And then he was lucky, because the night rain had brought lightning with it and the flash showed him, for just a second, exactly what was happening. He wished the electricity had hit bim afterwards, as shadow claws and spines moved erratically from him, the thing inside of him ripping his insides apart as it tried to get out, making him gasp for air as it withered from his mouth. The times where he escaped it, the lashing smoke disappearing instantly when he entered into the firelight, were even worse, because the wounds were on the inside and he'd vomit blood, throat raw and his body cramping as his organs faltered and shut down, losing control of himself as his nerves stopped responding correctly and dying slowly as the world seemed to dissolve.

And then he was awake again, the memory of death right above his skin and churning his stomach but his body whole and healthy.

This half life, an almost undeath, a curse of immortality, was infinite and he couldn’t count the time, couldn't count how many bodies he’s left in the world that he'd stumble upon at a later date. Too long, maybe, as each cycle led to his death and began again in sunlight and grass and a looming strangers curt speech. It was too long, more than months or years, possibly more than decades, centuries, maybe even millennia, and Wilson didn’t want to think on it, having given up on a journal ages ago when each death made him lose the blasted thing, and time was a human construct anyway, it wouldn’t help him anymore, would it?

There was no one to say good morning or goodnight to, no one to strike a conversation with or to debate or plan or mourn. Company came in the form of pigmen, of catcoons and the littlebouncy Chester, but one can only talk for so long with beings who had little to say. Survival was on everything’s mind here, not companionship, as Wilson found out early on when the pigs left him to the wolves on their doorsteps. The catcoons left, off to their own devices, and Chester seemed only to focus on its bone, following along and storing things in its mouth at the will of the bone holder. Once the bone was dropped, the former owner was nothing to the living chest. Tallbird hatchlings could only take one so far, and they grew up and left eventually.

At one point, in the middle of that infinite life, Wilson tried to give up. He stayed in the grass, laid there all day and evening, and let that shadow parasite dig through him and bleed him out. And, when he woke up once more, with the puff of smoke telling of the strangers leave, he did it again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

Except, eventually, he couldn’t stay still. How long he had done it, he didn’t know or want to know, but his mind seemed to start again and he stood up and started gathering resources. His brain had been tickled with a thought that, maybe, just maybe, there was a way out. Maybe it involved the mysterious man, maybe it had to do with the random bits and pieces he has found scattered around the world, hell, maybe it involved the Pig King; it didn’t matter. The possibility of escape, of relief of a final death drove him forward. Whether he got back to his old home didn’t matter anymore; what he wanted was for everything to just stop.

Except it didn’t, and an infinite amount of time passed, as he worked in vain, as he died in vain, as he resurrected in vain, and the shadows were breathing down his neck as he tried to understand black magic, tried to ignore how it was impossible, and soon enough the flowers were not working anymore. They had helped, had focused him and anchored him to this false reality, but now they couldn’t even do that. Was it because they had no more charm left, or because he had lived too long, a zombie with a healthy body and spiraling mind? 

Wilson found ghat it didn’t even matter, not anymore. His mental process had been degrading, the knowledge given to him in the deal written in stone but the rest of it rotting away, flesh information that wasn’t helpful, useful, not enough to keep him alive. It was taking to long a time, this infinite clock ticking away into oblivion, wasteful because he couldn’t even make a use of this immortality.

In the modern world, he could be doing any number of things, improving civilization with the knowledge he now had, but memories of the real world were being tossed aside, deteriorating under forgetfulness and he couldn’t even remember where he had lived, couldn’t remember what his family looked like or if they were even real anymore. What could confirm that he was truly in a fake world, that this wasn’t reality and he had been like this from the start, an immortal driven by nothing but leaky memories and a cruel longing for someone’s presence, to know that he wasn’t alone?

But, judging by continual events, he really wasn’t alone. Another immortal being, because they always appeared and they always looked the same and said the same thing, over and over. It could be a hallucination, a shadow that obscured his vision, an auditory nonexistent voice, but they had always been there, never changing, and Wilson knew shadows changed, warped into fears that tangled ones thoughts. This stranger, this person, human maybe, was not a shadow, was real.

Or, at least maybe real. They never stayed around, disappearing into smoke after a few words, and it jarred Wilson because, if they were not a shadow, how could they just disappear like that? He couldn't do that, no matter what ill activities he'd started to engage in, and whose to say this wasn’t just a trick of the mind, or a half dream before he awoke, alive and well after being torn to shreds moments earlier?

Alas, the only thing that made him question it, not chalk it up to a false memory or smokey shadow, was the statue. He never truly gets a good look at the stranger, the sun too bright and his head too addled, but if he had to guess the stone figure probably had the same features. It had actually taken a surprising amount of time finding it, more of him stumbling onto a board of steaming mechanical chess pieces that surrounded the stone itself. He had been lucky, the pigs that he had temporarily befriended falling into battle with ease. Most didn’t survive, but none of the chess pieces were standing and that was good enough.

The statue itself was raised in a surprising posture, of power and control and definitely human. There was no one around to view it, no civilization, besides Wilson of course. Now, was this because others were truly around and he was missing them, or plain narcissism? Or was it specifically for Wilson to see?

Either way, he found that leaving it here seemed to be more detrimental to him then just setting up camp and returning every time he died. The sight of something human, even if it was of stone and not living, was keeping him grounded. He now knew that he was not alone, that there were others, that humanity was not a false construct of his mind and that reality did in fact include people like him.

Well, maybe not exactly like him, but then he had very little to compare himself to. Pigmen were not at all like him, with the first difference being that there were many of them and were rarely alone. They didn’t seem to think about much, but they shared among themselves and were hearty and merry when their King was pleased, though they grew somber and suspicious when Wilson was around them, only getting a little friendly when he offered a gift of some sort of meat to them. When asked about the statue, they didn’t have much to say. Things about shadows, about the sun disappearing, about smells of smoke and displeasure and disappointment. The pigs didn’t like to discuss such things, so Wilson stopped asking them.

After such an infinite amount of time staying here, his camp was better than it had been in the beginning. Better than a fire pit and a thrown together machine and work table, at least. It went up slowly, with Wilson having a harder time on focusing then usual. It took a while to figure out, but the shadows crawling along, eldritch bodies twisting in the corners of his vision, were alarming and eventually he found the source of his confusion; a wild patch of flowers were growing close by. Dark flowers, the petals curled and colors bright and poisonous, their scent of a gentle variety that disguised them with the other, more normal flowers. It took a lot of will to pick them, and Wilson ended up storing them away, not willing to shred them up or throw them into the fire just yet. By then, his death by shadow abominations was assured and it seemed more painful than before, dying near to his fire with the statue of the mystery man looming in the darkness, wounds gone but blood spilled on the grass.

The next time he woke up, it was different. Minutely so, because the speech was normal and the puff of smoke was normal and the way back to camp was normal. It was all normal, a day like every other, but Wilson could feel a difference. Something was off.

He never figured it out, the feeling on the tip of his tongue, but there was nothing to do but continue, building a better camp and farming resources and staring at the flowers and their petals and the statue and the fire and-

He knew he was missing something. There was an odd bubble around his brain, cotton in his ears, but he just couldn't figure out what was wrong, couldn’t even explain the missing thing to himself, and it grated on him with every death, increasing as time went on. He found himself spacing out more, staring at objects more often than working, mind blank.

And then it was as if the other shoe dropped, because he woke up to a bad rainy day and his body ached and the rush of death memories felt heavier than before, because he hadn’t been letting himself dwell on them lately and it ate at him, circling his mind as he lay in front of the fire, and he couldn’t focus, couldn’t feel or think anything because everything was crowding him and suddenly a shadow rose above him, limbs withering as it gazed at him with blank, dead white eyes, moving in jerks as it pulled itself towards his shaking body. 

Wilson pushed himself away, confused and dizzy with his brain pounding behind his eyes, blood rushing in his ears and his back hit the base of the statue and he closed his eyes, covering them with his hands and-

The rain continued for awhile, slowly puttering off into a drizzle and then there was only the wet forest, the steady drip, drip from the trees. The shadow wasn’t there when he slowly pulled his hands back, the fire only a light stream of smoke, the sun in the sky wavering as clouds passed by. He was still trembling, his body not listening to him, and he collapsed when he tried to stand up, the statue raised above him. He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking, and they felt numb, his cloths soaked and hair plastered to his face. It took a moment before he burst out laughing, a high shrieking sound of pain that devolved into gasping sobs, his hands covering his face again as he dry heaved, stomach empty and body aching.

Nothing made sense anymore, but that was as if anything made sense in the first place. The world twisted around him a moment, feeling light headed, and why did the shadow leave, why didn’t it finish him off, he wasn’t having a good day, the rain made things worse, it would have been better if it had killed him, why wasn’t he dead, why wasn’t he allowed to die-

As he laid there, gasping for air and tugging on his sopping wet hair, trying to ground himself, trying to feel the world around him once more, Wilson wanted more than anything to forget. To remember nothing, to come back from death without the knowledge he had been given, to never know. Would it have been better? He would never know.

After that, Wilson found that not actually focusing, just doing, made him feel better. Not thinking of the future, just making things and tearing them down, calmed him. Really, it was more of him not letting himself think anymore.

He still died frequently, maybe even more often because the wild thought of immortality, of coming back over and over, was sticking to him now. He held onto it, held on just as much as he held onto building things and working on magic and farming, because immortality was an important thought and truly, if he wasn’t going to think anymore, shouldn’t he at least have this one to remember?

The statue was still there, a center piece to his slowly growing camp, because for all its aggressive, possibly scary implications, it depicted someone human, someone who might be around this world, walking on it right now, and Wilson found that thought comforting. If someone else was here, then that was okay. He might never find them, but their stone creation was good enough company, better than stilted pigs and sharp eyed cats and the obliviousness of Chester. He could talk to it, know there was going to be no response, but if he looked at it just right maybe he could imagine its response, because personality had to have been carved into it and Wilson was imaginative enough to pretend. 

To pretend it had things to say, things to say to him of all the other sentient things in the world, and it comforted him, playing pretend like this. He didn’t have to think about other things if he stopped thinking and distracted himself with imaginary conversations, with nothing but a walking chest and stone cold statue for company.

He didn’t need anyone anyway. It didn’t matter if he was here or back to trying to get out, to struggling in vain and suffering worse fates. So why should he question this anymore? There was no one to stop him, no one to question him or push him forward.

At this one moment in infinity, Wilson was okay.


	2. Ice To Meet You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to edit the formatting of these everytime I put them here, so as I waste time breaking up paragrahs and fixing mistakes I reread it all.
> 
> Interestingly enough, I can see the parts that I've reused and evolved to make my better stories. At the same time, I can also see all the mistakes and just generally not like what I was doing at all. Compared to some of my newer things, this looks pretty...bad.

It was winter. Deep winter, full of snow and cold and darkness that blanketed the world, muffling sound and sending many a creature off to sleep, a hibernation that would eventually break in the spring. Except spring was far off, a distant memory of warmth and green and light and…

Wilson was having a hard time. He hadn't prepared, hadn't done anything besides gather piles  
and piles of birchnuts, which, while edible when cooked, were not a stable diet. He hadn't made any clothing this time, hadn't hunted anything or trapped anything, did nothing to get ready besides the one thing he could not control, and his beard was little more than a stubble, nothing that could help now.

In the autumn, it had been alright. It was okay, to just not think ahead, to just work with his  
hands and gather and build and wander here or there, not to look to the future, because…

Well, it had been a terrible idea in the end. Now, he was stuck to his fire, scavenging for twigs,  
grasses, anything to keep it going and to keep himself from freezing, from letting the cold creep  
up and take him, because if he fell now, he'd only return to snow and ice. He would have  
nothing on him, and he could feel the repulsed feeling in him slide around, twisted because just  
the thought of dying over and over, by one thing again and again, was deafening. He'd done it  
before, by accident, and it had lasted a very long time, an endless loop that took him to the  
same place over and over, his own frostbitten corpses surrounding him, empty and alone and  
freezing up, to be thawed and rotted in the spring, to be stumbled upon to bury later, and-

He silenced the train of thought, broke its path before he could get stuck in overthinking, in  
repeating a lesson to himself until every word was meaningless. It'd become gibberish in the  
end and he wouldn’t learn a thing, would discard the information and forget, to be caught by the same mistake later on. And how could he disapprove the fact that he has already done it before, that the same thing happened back, back where he couldn’t think or remember, and he would repeat the same mistake again?

Maybe not now, he didn’t want to right now, the cold was itching into him, digging frozen fingers into him and curdling his mind, and-

The snow blinked him back, fog covering the incident as he focused on the air above him. It was  
a snowfall, quickly becoming heavier and faster and what did he have for protection? The lump  
of fur beside him panted loudly, tongue lolling out as it rested on his lap. It gave no heat, no  
cold, nothing at all, and the fact Wilson had a hand curled in its orange matted fur was the only  
indication to his brain that it existed at all, a semi anchor to the ice world around him.

The other anchor was his umbrella; he had made it awhile back, excited and brandishing it  
around and swiping shadows in the air before actually utilizing it against the summer rains that  
threatened to drown him. Now, it was a buffer against the snow, the flakes piling on top and  
tumbling off to the sides, its pink color bright against the black night sky. Night, and he was running so, so low on fuel. His shovel was broken, weakened by wet and dry shifts in weather and it had snapped into pieces yesterday. He hadn't wasted the pieces, had thrown them into the fire, saving the saplings he had dug up for emergencies, but even those were getting low, a few plants left, and he was already shivering, the icy stillness at home in his throat and lungs, and this time he didn’t want to die, not now, when he had worked so hard-

It hadn't been much, nothing more than dabbling in the petals of deep, dark flowers that numbed his fingers and raised his hair every time he held them, but he had felt proud, had looked at his new machine and the black slime he had created, had figured out, and of course none if it was scientific, logical, it made no sense-

But he had done it, had used his hands to make something that should not exist, and it had  
been so calming, even with black things crawling in his head and the tendrils that withered in his peripheral vision and how things had gotten so dark, fuzzy, full of static and fog that left a  
coating of something in his mouth and the whispers of so many voices that begged his attention, that rejected any idea he had tried to bring up and who wanted him to do something-

And now the winter was sapping his pride away, his body ill and mind sluggish, slow and tired  
and he didn’t want to die, didn’t want to die, no no no no-

His trembling shook the umbrella, causing a mini avalanche that plopped down next to him,  
startling Wilson enough to make him yelp, jerking his head up, eyes darting around because  
what was that, was something coming to get him, he didn’t want to die-

But the silence stretched, his body staying tense as he looked back at the sinking fire. His hand  
reached out to the side, eyes trained on the flickering flame, grabbling with a thin sapling before tossing it in. The plant was engulfed quickly, the fire eager and hungry, and it crackled back at Wilson, almost as if it was grateful. After a moment, staying still as warmth touched him lightly, Wilson asked the fire if it could get bigger, if it really had to have him get things for it to eat.

The fire didn’t reply, but Wilson seemed to have gotten his answer. Fire was selfish after all,  
everyone knew that. Or, at least Wilson knew that.

Considering this for a moment, he turned to look at the statue that was to his left, a looming,  
snow covered figure of stone. He asked the statue if it had always known that the fire was  
selfish.

…The statue didn’t say anything back, but its menacing face sneered at him and it told him of  
course it did, was he stupid, everyone knew that. Wilson nodded, the thought evaporating, not  
understanding what exactly everyone knew anymore, but knowing that the statue knew. How,  
he couldn't say; made of stone, it could not move, nor learn anything at all.

That thought slid away, sinking down and disappearing and he was left with nothing, staring back into the fire, the dried plant wreathed in flame, crumbling oh so slowly, blackening and  
dying with only the fire cackling over its body and snapping whispered words to it, mighty over a fainting patch of twigs-

Wilson had to fight to keep his eyes open. He slept rarely, even in the warmth and relative  
safety of early spring and autumn, but winter took that away from him completely, his own mind working against the idea. Because if he slept, if he curled up with Chester and let himself drift off, whose to say he wouldn’t wake up somewhere else? And then, after winter cleared up and he finally made his way back, he'd have to pull his corpse out of camp and-

No, he didn’t want to fall asleep. Not now, not in this season. Such a bad idea, sleeping, he  
disliked it, it could cause so much trouble, it has caused him enough problems already, why not  
do away with the idea…

He must have dozed off, because the next moment he found himself fallen over, in the cold  
snow, and Chester had moved closer to the fire and away from him. The umbrella was to the  
side, lightly covered in fine powder, and when he sat up, slow and shivery, the snow that had  
gathered on him slid off, leaving him wet and uncomfortable. He reached out and held the  
umbrella aloft again, stilling the steady fall of snow from settling on his hair. The fire was alright, still aglow with satisfaction, and he scooted closer, the heat barely there anymore. The  
temperature was severely low, and his teeth were starting to chatter, clicking sounds that broke the calm of the fires hissing.

He could feel his anxiety building up again, because he had slipped up, had gotten wet, and it  
was just too cold, it shouldn't be like this, why was he so cold-

Wilsons thoughts scrambled around, loud and incomprehensible as fear bloomed in his chest,  
an aching knot growing thicker and tighter. He didn’t want to die, not now, no, it would be worse if he died, it would hurt, it would pile up and, and-

He scrambled up, dropping the umbrella and practically leaping to one of his chests, digging  
around, trying to find something, anything that would slow his fevered mind, because he didn’t  
want to think about dying or pain or cold or ice or-

And his hand tightened around something soft, something that he had saved from autumn,  
something that he used to feel reality, an anchor for awhile, and he pulled out the garland, its  
flowers old and withered but still together, not rotted just yet, and hurriedly placed it on his head, closing his eyes as he felt it weigh his hair down and-

And he wavered, everything spinning as his actions caught up to him, toughing out the rush of  
blood to his head and the nausea that came with standing up too fast. Shivering still, eyes  
closed as he tried to find what he had been looking for, because the calmness wasn’t there, the  
feeling of weight and reality missing completely, and-

And Wilson reached up, to make sure he still had the flowers on his head, and yes, they were  
there, soft and not so fresh but fragile and real and-

And it wasn’t working.

Something was wrong, terribly wrong, because the flowers were supposed to let him feel the  
world again, but he felt detached and spinning, dizzy and cold and confused, his thoughts  
devolving again into a muddle of chaos, and he was light headed, forgetting which way was up  
and which way was down and-

It was a last ditch effort, to control this raising pitch and not get lost, to fight against what was  
waiting for him in the cold snow and in a bewildered lunge he was digging his hands deeper into  
the chest, grabbing for anything that he could attach to, anything to feel and know and-

And the petals sent a shock up his spine, a different feeling of numbness crawling up his arm as  
he dragged them up out of the darkness of the chest. The snow was falling more thickly, heavy  
and strong, but Wilson had his eyes on the dark flowers, the plants that he had been gathering  
for so long, and they sung to him, fragrance not even muddled by the ice, strong and curling up  
into his lungs.

It was Chesters movement that snapped him awake, mind buzzing dully and vision flickering  
and faded as he turned around. It took him even longer to recognize that the flame was almost  
done, having finished the sapling into ash and charcoal, and he was slow to get another object  
into the fire, another brittle plant, but the flame brightened and consumed it eagerly.

And it was still cold, but his shivering stopped as warmth flooded from the fire and he sluggishly  
sat down, Chester right beside him and panting away, the petals still in his hands. They sent  
shocks through his nerves, sharp and narrow, and they vibrated in his hands, a living heartbeat  
that pulsed and thrived in the cold air, jolting his mind and making him feel the snow under him  
and the shaky breaths he was taking, the biting air filling his lungs, the freezing temperature that clawed his exposed skin, dragging ice picks up and down in tremors and shakes that crept into his nerves, a spiked blanket covering his insides and bleeding him with every breath, every  
movement, a haze covering his eyes and dampening his fevered mind, slowing to a crawl and...

And, while the footsteps didn't wake him, the voice certainly did.

“Say pal, shouldn’t you be doing something else right about now?”

Wilson blinked, uncomprehending, his shivering returning as the cold snuck in, his mind peeling  
away from the fog of the petals, and he didn’t respond, staring at the blaze of fire in front of him.

Now that wasn’t right, something was different, something happened just now and Wilson must have missed it, because the memory hadn't even formed yet and did anything happen just now? Chester seemed to get agitated, an unusual reaction from the otherwise content chest, and it stood up, mouth fully closed, and backed away from Wilson, slow and careful. He stared at it, watched as it continued to scoot a few feet back and then plop down, short furry body tense.

That was not normal, right? He couldn’t remember, not right now, with a light haze keeping him blank and away from truly thinking, and that was caused by the petals, wasn’t it?

He stared down at them, the buzzing a faint background noise, because there was still  
something he was missing, something very, very important he just forgot that tickled his mind.

Should he just ignore it then, since it was bothering him but was not obvious at all, completely  
forgotten already even though it felt so fresh?

And he would have forgotten the incident almost immediately, except for the fact that somebody had grown impatient.

“When I take time out of my day to grace somebody with my presence, I expect them to  
acknowledge me.”

That set him in motion, not taking the time to understand the words and more acting on instinct, on the sudden sounds, because hearing noises in the dark meant creatures of the night, hounds and spiders and shadows that wanted nothing more than to tear him apart.

Wilson lunged for his spear, rolling in the snow, would have missed it if the handle hadn't been  
poking out of the snow pile, and twisted around, weapon raised and body tense, ready for  
something to barrel out of the darkness in a berserk rush at him and-

And he froze, eyes widening and mind slamming into a brick wall as he realized it wasn’t some  
night monster that had snuck up on him.

The silence spread between them, the snowfall lessening and puttering out, and it finally broke  
when the visitor cleared his throat, black shiny eyes watching Wilson closely.

“I do have to admit, I didn’t expect to be greeted in such a hostile way. Were you not a  
gentleman at some point, Wilson?”

Wilson wobbled, light headed and not actually understanding the situation in any way.  
Gentleman? He knew what a gentleman was, of course, he was a Gentleman Scientist, he  
knew that, right? He dropped the spear, because gentlemen did not wield weapons around willy nilly, and hurting someone was not what a gentleman did, and what was a gentleman-

He couldn't quite comprehend that someone was right there, because that wasn’t right, no one  
could be there, no one was ever there, no one should be there-

But the fire reflected off of the newcomer and light brought clarity, didn’t it, and he couldn’t  
disapprove that, not without evidence, not without solid fact, and he had none of those things,  
not on him anyway, and it was starting to dawn on him that someone was actually there, right  
there, in front of him, when was the last time he had seen someone, when was the last time  
someone actually existed, when was the last time when he was the only one here-

He was trembling hard, not just from the cold, staring at the other man, and the silence  
thickened and stretched, and the man was about to break it, about to push forward again  
because damn it, he was wasting his time, he could be doing other things, playing other pawns  
right now, pawns that actually worked for his attention and played the game and went by the  
rules and actually learned, when suddenly-

Wilson was working on something else, drowning in a nothingness of emotions and thoughts  
that disintegrated in his head before even connecting together, and he didn’t have the mental  
strength to think anything out, to stop any action anymore, and-

And he had his arms wrapped around the stranger, eyes tightly shut and face buried in the  
mans foreign cloak, and maybe he was crying but he didn’t know, everything too much and  
overwhelming and draining and he could only stand there, shivering and latched on to some  
random person, an anchor to try and prevent the already commencing mental breakdown, a  
floodgate that had been falling apart the instant he had processed the fact that someone was  
here, he wasn’t alone-

And it lasted awhile, a silence as Wilson trembled and broke and babbled words and sentences  
only he knew, except that he didn’t because it was all a rush of wind in his head that  
disconnected the instant his mouth said them, the other man still and quiet and observing,  
analyzing the situation. Wilson had little mind for passing time, preoccupied with drowning and  
trying to find a surface, his hands tight on the strangers cloak, tremors raging up and down his  
spine as he let it out, this rush of noise that held everything he could push out of him, a weight  
he has never felt lessening, loose and drifting away from his mind.

The calm after the storm settled gently over him and he stilled, heartbeat slowing and breathing falling from gasps to wheezes, tired and drained and cracked into so many tiny pieces that held so loosely together by a trembling will. And Wilson slipped all too quickly into a doze, mentally and physically collapsed, leaning heavily onto the other man, still with a death grip around him and not willing to let go of such a hallucination just yet.

When he awoke, in the snow with the orange fur pile of Chester resting in his arms and a  
headache of massive proportions pounding in his head, the snow under him chilling and sharp  
and the fire pit cold and empty, there was nothing in his head. The thoughts had stilled, a  
quietness that didn’t feel vaguely threatening settled over him, and he didn’t try to get up, eyes  
still closed, trying to remember the previous night, the thoughts pulling apart and drifting, slowly fading.

And then someone suddenly kicked him in the back, hard.

He hissed from the pain, scrambling to get up, out of the suddenly biting snow that dug into his  
bare hands, Chester pulling away and putting distance between itself and Wilson, shaking the  
snow out of its fur. When he was up, shivering in the chilly air, the ache in his spine mingling  
with the rest of his pains, he could only stare at the person behind him. The memories were  
refreshed, a sudden light clicked back on, and he fully remembered last night, disorientation  
hitting him and making him light headed as he tried to process the past events.

“Don't faint again; I have other, more important things to do than bother with you.”

The man had a sneer on his face, eyes inhuman and shiny as they glared down at Wilson, a  
looming figure over the shorter man, and Wilson could only stare. There was a silence before  
the man practically shoved him towards his fire pit, his voice a warning growl of impatience that  
pulled Wilson out of his trance.

“Get the fire going before you freeze. I have pressing matters to attend to.”

And Wilson had the flint in his hands and a left over sapling in the pit, kneeling over as a spark  
caught and alighted, the fire was small but slowly started to catch, and-

And he must have said something, a whisper, a plea, wait, and the stranger halted and turned,  
and Wilson could feel the fear shiver through him at the sight of the mans face, suddenly  
wishing he hadn't spoken at all, hadn't thought at all, and-

“What is it, why are you bothering me again?”

And it took a moment, of stuttering and muttering and being incomprehensible, and then it was a quiet, pleading, are you coming back? And Wilson didn’t know, didn’t know what the answer  
could be to that, he shouldn’t have done anything, this was just a trick, a shadow, some flaring  
hallucination before he woke up, and-

And the stranger trudged up to his kneeling form, tall and imposing and shadowy and terrifying  
and Wilson closed his eyes, because it was obviously not real, visionary, auditory slips of the  
mind, he had those all the time, he knew that sometimes, not all the time but he remembered  
now that he pretended too much and this was just an imaginary encounter and-

There was a hand on his head, cold, colder than the ice, sharper, and it had weight and he  
could feel the presence of this person, something dark and heavy and twisted and eldritch, and-

“…If I have time on my schedule, I'll come back.”

And then the man was leaving, walking away, and Wilson watched him go. A tree obscured him  
for a moment and then he was gone, vanished as if he was never there in the first place, leaving  
Wilson to his small fire and meager supplies. Chester scooted back over to him, panting loudly  
and pressing its body to his side and allowing him to pet it, fingers tangling in matted fur.


	3. Throne For A Loop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I remember correctly, I had written this chapter before the second chapter.
> 
> It is a slight jump ahead, with I guess the AU of Charlie taking the Throne from Maxwell since Wilson was nowhere near to getting to it. 
> 
> I can see what I took from writing this and then incorporating it into other ideas; it's kind of weird, seeing my bad writing but with similiar ideas that I've written upon...Odd.

It was almost dusk. Almost winter, with the days shorter and nights longer, a long, colorful  
autumn that dragged on before the trees give up the last of their leaves.

Wilson didn’t know if he should consider that a bad thing. The people he was camping with  
seemed to think of it as bad and were always rushing about, “preparing”, as they put it. At first,  
they wanted him to help out, but…well, he got distracted too easily. He also didn’t fully  
understand half of the things they did, mostly because he didn’t want to. “Spider farms” did not  
sound like a good idea at all; wouldn’t the arachnids be smart enough to avoid traps or at least  
destroy them? Were they so docile because one of the campers was (possibly? Probably?  
Maybe?) half spider himself? He had decided not to think about it too much, because then the  
train of thought would lead him to topics he didn’t want to think about, like the campers  
themselves and how they got here and how long they’ve been here and if they’ve died as much  
as he has and how there was someone he knew here-

He shook his head, wavering as he grew light headed, almost dropping the pile of things in his  
arms. Oh right, the flowers.

They hadn't sent him off to gather anything, but he needed to do something with his hands.  
Wilson had too much time with little to do, and eventually he’d turn to darker activities if he didn’t have work to do, something to quiet his mind and have him not think, just do. The last time that happened…well, he had his own camp at the time, so at least nobody saw what he did. His past skeleton was nearly unrecognizable, so no one should be able to identify it as him if they stumbled upon it.

Flower picking wasn’t as calming or useful as it used to be, but the others liked flowers and  
garlands and the like. It was the only thing he could do that seemed somewhat helpful that kept  
him out of the way. It also let him leave the camp for long periods of time, to not be around them and their staring eyes and mixed expressions and condescending words and /him/-

After a moment, Wilson realized he'd been picking the wrong flowers. These ones were bad,  
detrimental and poisonous. He must have been spacing out, picking up whatever was in a  
vague flower shape. That also seemed to include pinecones, reeds, and weirdly shaped sticks.

The pile he's made was now useless and he would have to go back empty handed. They’d ask  
where he had went, what he had been doing, why he had nothing with him, and they'd pester  
and pester and pester and-

Wilson dropped his pile of useless objects, staring down at it before bending down and grabbing a handful of the dark petals. He stuffed them in his pocket; he would need them later, whether for an invention or just something for his hands to hold. They weren't good for his health, the transparent shadows already present in his peripheral vision, but they made him feel more real than the regular flowers did. He could focus on them, and thus focus on reality, even as that reality devolved into whispers and grand eldritch beings that twisted impossibly above him.

He didn’t want to forget the others; if he stumbled upon them in such a confused state, then…they'd do something about it, probably, and then he'd have to think about them and where he was and who exactly he was afraid of-

Shivering, realizing his shadow was growing long and the light was fading, Wilson hurried back  
to the path that led to camp. The others have told him that the dark wasn’t as bad now, that the thing that lurked there wasn’t around anymore, that it had taken the throne from-

But that didn’t ease his worries. Wilson didn’t want to ask about it, didn’t want to think about it.

The thing they were talking about, it must have been different from what he has seen, what he  
has been killed by, because it didn’t make logical sense to him how that thing could have gotten  
out of him and made it's way down-

He stumbled, almost tripped as his mind wandered, forgetting about rocks and holes and tufts of grass. The path had went left and he went right, so he had to turn back, lose more time as the sun went down. The camp was fortunately just around the corner, the campfire already lit and lanterns on as the sun faded into darkness.

Wilson slowed down, shuffling his steps and keeping a wary eye open. Not everyone was back,  
but then, they weren't afraid of the dark anymore. Nothing was going to climb out of their gut  
and throat and tear at their faces and-

The ones here were talking together around the fire pit, the older lady and the spider creature  
and the little girl and the painted man and…and-

Wilson decided it'd be better to sneak into the back of his tent. They were not paying attention,  
focused on the crockpot, and he didn't…didn't want to…

They didn’t see him, he hoped they didn’t see him, and he stuck to the light shadows and was  
back in the relative safety of his tent. The meal they were making, the smell of it, was turning his stomach and it unfortunately had spread into his tent; he didn’t have much love for meat, but many of those here had a certain taste for it.

It wasn’t that he had anything against the food, just that the mere thought of it made him feel  
sick. He had never liked the texture, the flavor, and especially the way it had to be gathered.

Fortunately, none of them have yet realized that he ate almost nothing, but that may be because he discreetly buried the offending food in the forest when no one was looking. The berry bushes would do for now, and he has survived winters with only fruits and vegetables; the birchnuts were true lifesavers back in the past.

He didn’t want to think of what would happen if anyone found out. When he first stumbled here, he…actually, he didn’t want to remember that either. It didn’t matter anyway.

He could hear them talking outside, murmurs and mutterings that he couldn’t process right now. If he tried, he could have heard what they were saying, but…someone was out there that he didn’t want to think about, and his voice was loud and real and-

Wilson tried to not let them, but the thoughts came up either way, twisting and repeating and  
driving his anxiety higher because what if, what if, what if? And it took a moment for him to  
banish them away, dark petals tight in his hand and under a blanket, letting his thoughts jitter  
about confusedly and disconnected, low whispering in his head and his static laden eyes  
closed, letting it all numb out. He wanted to stay away more, not come back at all, but…

It was an invisible wall, an invisible block that he didn’t acknowledge because if he did he'd have to face these thoughts and the last time he did that he had a very, very bad day. He already had to leave his last camp, his safe place where he could sit and stare at nothing and when things came in and killed him, they'd be gone by the time he made his way back.

He should have never come here, never had listened to that dreaded thought, that worming  
feeling that something was dreadfully wrong, because the last time he had died the stranger  
hadn't been there and he had been so dizzy, more than usual, and it had sent a spike of fear  
through him and he had been so confused and, and-

He had gotten lost. Wilson couldn’t remember where his camp had been. The statue, the  
flowers, the farms, Chester. All of it, forgotten and lost, because he couldn't find it again. It  
seethed in him, an anger at himself, because that had been his, he had been working, building,  
and the camp had risen from his hands, and he had lost it all. The death hadn't even been worth it, but at the time his thoughts had gotten loud again and his body had hurt and it was raining heavy and fast and he couldn't deal with it, couldn’t let it pound his head over and over for a second more, and the spear had been so close by and his hesitation was tampered down by the past and-

And now look where he was. Surrounded by strangers, people, humans of all things, and he has  
been alone for too long for this, alone and talking to himself and shadows and the statue and,  
and-  
The sounds outside got louder, the others returning for the night. His tent was dark when he  
pulled the blanket from his head, cotton in his ears and static in his brain. The petals were  
crushed, useless probably, but they had done what he had wanted them to do, and now he  
couldn't think of anything at all. Pleasant and void and they had gotten quiet again, time had  
passed without him noticing, and the fire outside was only a faint glow that barely touched his  
tent. He could have sat there all night, staring at nothing and listening to a faint buzzing and the  
flickers of dark shadow that swept over the walls of his tent, twisted of face and limb that  
reached out to him-

And then the bubble burst and his ears rung, because he could hear again and see again and  
think again and it was still quiet, everyone asleep, and that was a rush of relief, because nobody had noticed he'd been gone and nobody had checked up on him and nobody had cared-

Wilson had to get out of his tent. The walls were shrinking, caving in with sharp snaps and  
they'd strangle him if he didn’t get out right now, and he moved quickly, tugging at the back door of his tent and falling on his face as it let him out. He didn’t move, stayed in the position with his face in the grass and dirt, taking in the smell of the earth and living things. The fire was crackling softly, still burning, not going out, keeping the darkness at bay.

After a moment, Wilson pulled himself back up, sitting in the dirt and watching the shadows of  
the fire on the nearby forest and its trees, twisting about here and there. Once, a long time back, he used to stare at the sky, wonder if the cloud cover would lessen enough to let him see  
above. When that finally did happen, when the clouds thinned into nothing and he'd felt such  
excitement course through him, it was more than a disappointment to see nothing up there. A  
moon, sure, but what of the stars? The sky was a black void, darker than anything Wilson could  
have imagined, and his brain had twisted and turned, trying to logically figure it out, because no  
stars meant no other planets about, no galaxies, no asteroids or comets, no solar systems,  
nothing but this place and its own moon and sun. There was nothing out there.

That had made him feel very alone then. He could remember that, that instant of time that felt so long ago, and he didn’t want to look at the sky again, didn’t want to know how he'd feel about an empty void hanging above him now.

He was shivering, the night cold and long. Some of the others told him he never wore enough to keep himself safe, but that had to be a lie. He remembered winters of wearing warm, furry hats and thick cloths, and summers of light clothing and nice, polite hats. Of course, he couldn't  
remember when he had these things, or if he ever had them after making his final camp, but he  
didn’t need to tell them this, did he? Wilson didn’t talk to them much anyway, so it clearly didn’t matter and wasn’t that important. If he couldn't make his own protective clothing, then so be it.

As long as he had the cloths on his back, no matter how old and ragged they looked, he'd be  
fine. If he died of the cold, he'd just come back anyway.

That would be better, in the end. He'd be away from here, away from how he'd started thinking  
again and trying to live again, and all for what? For…for…

Wilson held his head in his hands, trembling not just from the cold.

He didn’t want to think this. Not again, not another run around. He was tired, he'd been tired  
ever since he could remember, which wasn’t that reliable, and he couldn’t break that invisible  
barrier, not yet and not ever, never never never. He rocked slowly, quietly, wanting to dig his  
own eyes out, tear his hair out, strangle himself, anything to stop thinking about these things, to make these thoughts disappear. They just piled up, incomprehensible because he didn’t examine them, didn’t remember them, ignored them and pretended. Pretended they weren't  
there, pretended he wasn’t here, pretended that everything was nothing.

In the past, he could have babbled nonsense and let it flow out of him, gibberish but a relief off  
his shoulders. He'd direct it to the statue, the stone thing in the middle of his camp, the figure  
that had told him through its own existence that humanity was real and others were real and he wasn’t totally alone, the only one. He could let it all go, forget the words the instant they left his mouth because he was ignoring them and pretending that they did not matter. Stars did not  
matter. People did not matter. Flowers did not matter. Death did not matter.

He did not matter.

And now-and now that statue was-was…

Wilson could only keep these thoughts, words locked up now, bottled, because they would not  
work anymore. He was surrounded by real human beings, and they must matter, because they  
were all here and all breathing and all alive and it was not just him anymore and-

Wilson didn’t notice the footsteps until they were right behind him, shoes on dirt and twigs and  
dry grass. He froze as they stopped, feeling the presence behind him, everything shrieking to a  
halt, holding his breath, shock coursing through his system, a fight or flight response that turned to fear-

No no no no no no no no no-

“Say pal, aren't you up a little late?”

Wilson didn’t answer, eyes closed, starting to tremble again, ignoring, ignoring, ignoring...

The other man sat down next to him, quiet as his body creaked in protest. He was much older  
than Wilson, older than the infinite deaths Wilson has suffered, older than the pale world itself.

On the throne, full of power and control and omnipresence, he had little time to regret, little  
emotional capacity to feel anything about the pawns on the board. It was a game, to him and  
Them and Charlie.

And now, usurped by the only other person as old as him…he had the time and humanity to  
regret many, many things. The past him would have been horrified at what he had done, and  
what he sometimes continues to do, but William Carter was long dead. Infinity did such strange, degenerative things to a person.

It was more evident on the former scientist than anyone else he had brought here, even himself.

Who knew that Wilson would end up with the short end of the stick? 

“This cold shoulder business is rather rude, I do have to say. You were much more amiable in  
the past, all on your lonesome.”

Silence, because Wilson would not talk, would not speak a word, not to-to this person, no, he  
couldn’t do it, can't, he can't. The last time they had, the last time, at his camp, his, and the  
statue above them, towering, and the man had been tall then too, imposing and dark and cold  
and-

He jumped when something was put over his shoulders, shocked out of his spiraling, disjointed  
thoughts, identifying the blanket after a couple of seconds of blankness. It was silent, unease  
and awkwardness between them as time stretched on. Wilson kept his eyes shut, tempted to  
open but not yet, not yet, can't-

The blanket quieted his shivering, though tremors of a different sort scratched up Wilsons spine, his thoughts untethered and listless as they sat together. He had bent his head down, curled up with his knees to his chest, trying to stop trembling, trying to curl up into nothingness, trying to-

Then he heard the other man start to move, tensing and feeling everything go so, so still. And  
nothing happened, the world silent, fire crackling muted and wind through the forest muffled, the only thing important happening here and now.

And then there was a pressure on his shoulder and it was so still and quiet and he had to look,  
had to know, had to, had to, convincing himself, and-

The other man was leaning on him, almost shoulder to shoulder, his height taller than Wilsons,  
and Wilson could see his face, for a second, and he looked so tired and aged and worn out and  
he was looking off into the forest and he was /human/-

And Wilson shut his eyes again, hands tight together around his drawn legs, rattling out a long  
held breath, feeling the person next to him, feeling the others warmth and feeling his presence  
and-

His heart was beating hard, everything still and muted and his head hurt, aching from stress and  
tension and hunger and insomnia and-

He was trembling again, could feel the numbness in his fingers creeping up his arms and it felt  
like everything was too much, nothing and everything happening at once, overcrowding and  
barren and-

And the silence stretched, a semi-calm that blanketed the night, and the everything and nothing slowed to a halt. Wilson was just so tired, an overbearing amount of emotions raging  
through him, thoughts he didn’t want to acknowledge or think about, and slowly, slowly, the  
darkness behind his eyelids grew and he drifted away, a reprieve in the infinite. 

 

It was easy to recognize when the scientist had fallen asleep, body leaning against the other  
man, head down but against his shoulder, quiet, slow breaths that wheezed harshly. The time  
between getting ripped off the throne and meeting Wilson here (not really a true meeting, more lf a sudden eye contact and oh, the scientist has fainted kind of deal) had not been too long, a year or so at most. Another tick mark to put on the infinite blackboard, that was all.

William Carter had not been a strong, healthy person. Maxwell hadn't been any better, though  
he did think of himself as of having a strong will and powerful mental state. He had needed help, wouldn’t have survived very long all alone, so he had sought out the large encampments he had watched over, had played with and sometimes utterly decimated even. They remembered him, of course they did, even with the oldest survivor living here for only few decades, and it was all spears and swords and angry arguments for months before they got it through their thick skulls that he was useful, the fall of a giant set on the destruction of their base being the turning point (he wasn’t in control anymore, they whispered, who was?) and it was all calm for awhile, time left to think about things, remember long buried memories and push through the mental walls he had created while on the throne, open up all of the infinite amount of time he has spent here, sort out the past and clear cobwebs.

And then Wilson had shown up.

To be honest, Maxwell had forgotten all about him. The first one he had pulled in here, a  
devastating failure at playing the game right, but the scientist had his uses. His skeletons guided  
many a survivor away from death, gave much needed supplies in emergencies, caused enough  
distress in the world to the point of being entertaining. It was unfortunate that Wilson had never actually met up with anyone during that time; how would that have panned out, an “eccentric” scientist with help from other revenge seeking survivors?

Either way, it had all led to this. An aging, deteriorating magician and a former scientist who  
could not handle infinity and immortality. And they were stuck here, this place Maxwell himself  
had created, with no where else to go. Wilson would not be able to function in society without  
being a danger to himself or others, and Maxwell had been getting on in the years even before  
coming here; his body probably could not even survive a trip back to the modern world.

His sigh was barely audible, keeping still as to not disturb the sleeping scientist. What to do,  
what to do…

His thoughts were interrupted, someone else awake in the middle of the night, and they cleared their throat quietly to get his attention. Maxwell looked up to see Wickerbottom, an aging former librarian whose been here the longest when compared to the rest of the encampment. She looked down at him over her glasses, her own bias against him curbed with time and the apathy of the old, and glanced over at Wilson. 

“I see you were able to get him to sleep finally. I was just coming over to see how he was  
doing.”

She was quiet, her voice raspy and dry, and for a second she almost looked relieved before the  
curled stern look returned to her face. Maxwell grinned, unnerving and full of sharp teeth,  
though the older lady did not have any reaction to it.

“He’s not doing so well, I'm afraid. I do believe a search of his tent should be in order?”

Wickerbottom nodded, the implications of such an action turning over in her mind before her  
thoughts went elsewhere. She turned away, back to her own tent and the night of sleeplessness ahead of her.

“Get him into bed; we do not need an outbreak of sickness right before winter.”

She left before the magician could reply, possibly with something snarky or sarcastic, but  
Maxwell did as she asked. It wasn’t that easy, his own body old and weak, but the scientist was  
frail, weighing very little, and didn’t wake as Maxwell half carried, half dragged him back to his  
bed. They definitely would need to clean it soon; Wilson was not the cleanest of people, and he  
had an unfortunate hobby of collecting things he should not be touching.

Maxwell hesitated before leaving, thinking for a moment in the silence before leaving the blanket with the scientist. Whether he did it because he didn’t need it, the goodness in his nonexistent heart, or some other reason, he decided it was not worth thinking about. The other man needed it more anyway; with how skinny he was, it was a wonder that the breeze didn’t just blow him away.

He had to throw another log into the fire pit before heading to bed, the flames catching and  
brightening up the small encampment. In the end, this seemed a lot better than being on a  
sharp, cold throne with that awful song looping over and over next to his ear.

As for Wilson, this had to be a step up from babbling to statues and berry bushes, dying over  
and over and remembering all of it.

…What an unfortunate man. Maxwell did not envy him.


	4. Pawsing For Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually like the rain, but I never like it when it rains ingame.
> 
> Warning for Hounds and descriptions of blood/animal death.

The camp had fallen into a semi organized chaos. There was a lot of rushing about, a babble of  
voices that ranged from almost hysterical whispering to fever pitched yelling to loud shouted  
commands, camp members rushing to stuff items into chests, store food and close any gaps in  
the wooden walls besides the entrance and the back exit.

Wilson was hiding in his tent, sometimes taking a glance outside, watching the rush for a few  
moments. He didn't know the full details, but he knew enough from the initial warning that had  
started it all.

Someone had come sprinting back to camp half an hour earlier, followed by a companion just  
as winded as them, and the initial news wasn’t what had caused panic. Hounds were common  
creatures, and, while vicious and hard to deal with at times, the canines were not a true threat.  
Wilson didn't know what red hounds were, or their significance, but the older lady had looked  
quite grave at the news and had already started taking charge before the two finally told her  
what exactly made them come running back instead of dealing with the creatures themselves.

It was a Varg that was tracking them.

And that had sent a shiver down Wilsons spine, he knew what those were, he's had them chase  
him, track him down and tear him to pieces, eat him alive, he remembered Vargs, almost  
clearly, and that had panicked him into fleeing to his tent, because pain memories were  
swamping him and he could just feel its teeth and see its eyes locking onto his and watching  
him die, no malice or violence or bloodlust or even hunger, dark eyes that watched as his life  
seeped away and fangs digging into his skin and-

He settled with rocking under a blanket, not wanting his flowers just yet, not yet, he didn't want  
to run out of them, his ever dwindling supply, and-

And the hustle from outside distracted him, tore him from the spiraling thoughts that seemed to  
repeat into gibberish, and now he watched, waited, blank for the moment as he was forgotten.

No one had even taken a step towards his tent yet, no one had even thought about him, and  
that was okay, there were more important things to do, Wilson recognized that, they had to store  
food and essential items and make sure the children were protected-

Two children. He knew that, of course, he's seen them here or there, and maybe they  
approached him, once or twice or too many to count but he doesn't remember right now, doesn't  
even know their names and that was quite rude of him, he should know the names of the people  
he camped with-

And he could feel himself slipping into thought again, about names and children and people and  
he didn't want that right now, could feel that pushing wall in front of him and not right now, not  
right now, there were other things happening, things too important for him to forget, not right now-

The Vargs howl shook him out of it, shook everyone in the campsite, a shrieking, drawn out call  
that echoed loud and clear and powerful. There was a silence, a stillness for just a moment,  
before everyone moved full force, getting ready, armor and weapons placed in ready hands  
and-

Wilson leapt back from the shadow that suddenly blocked his tent door, taking a few steps back  
and tensing as the flap was pushed open, mind blank from the sudden shock of surprise. Mrs.  
Wickerbottom looked at him from over her glasses, pursing her lips in thought as she gave a  
quick glance over his dark dwellings. There were more important things in her mind, thoughts of  
her books and own weapons and the safety of herself and the camp, but this had to be taken  
care of. Unnecessary drama aside, an extra hand to help was better than nothing at all.

He knew who she was of course, but he has been avoiding everyone, staying here, in this safe  
spot of his, and Wilson could just feel her gaze crawling over him, evaluating him, judging him-

“Do you have experience in hound combat?”

She was hesitant, dragging the sentence before letting go, because maybe he didn't, maybe he  
wouldn't answer, maybe she'd be able to send him off with the children…but that would mean  
getting someone to watch him and who would be willing to do it, to leave the fighting and  
protection of their home on the others as they ran off to safety? Wes was already accompanying  
the kids, the mime couldn't handle a third person, especially a mentally unsound adult, and the  
only one who could was needed. He had expertise in fighting, a Varg required all able bodied  
fighters to take down, and she felt obligated to ask this man, even if she was hesitant and  
unsure of the consequences afterwards. The guilt of just ignoring him would hang over her  
however, and that was not what a stable camp did, they did not leave behind members, no  
matter the level of their usefulness. So she waited, watching as he started to fidget under her  
gaze, trying not to wonder if he even knew what she had just said.

And, after a moment, he nodded. It wasn't much, a twitch of the head, not even meeting her  
eyes, but it had to mean something if he was communicating at all. And if he knew how to fight,  
then good, because they will need everything they can get before the Varg approaches.

“I will get you a weapon, make sure not to point it at anyone besides a hound-“

It was an interruption and usually, she'd draw the line at this. The man had gotten active,  
shaking his head with haste and gesturing urgently, and Wickerbottom could safely assume that  
he already had one, something that he held onto personally, and that did not bode well,  
because what exactly did he have with him, hidden in this dark, decrepit tent when no one was  
looking? But this was not the time for suspicion and enemies were on their way here, whether  
they were ready or not, and she'd have to trust him this time. He hadn’t earned such trust from her yet, but maybe this was a step in the right direction.

She nodded, waved an aging hand as she got ready to explain the plan, but the Vargs howl and  
the sound of many panting canines rushing towards them interrupted her and they were out of  
time. All she could do was throw a rushed, “Ready yourself!” at him before the hounds  
descended, their barks rough and piercing, pushing through the front gate and even leaping  
over the wooden wall to meet the armed defenders.

Hounds were hulking creatures, towering over a human and packed with muscle and teeth.  
Tactile attack is good for one on one, or even two on one, but the Varg had been howling all the  
way to the camp and it's pack was big, enough to cause mass confusion as each person  
reverted to their own way of fighting while still trying to work together.

Wilson had barely taken a step out before the wave hit him, the hounds baying loud in the air  
and their pungent scent spreading as they attacked and he hadn't thought this through, had he,  
he had just said yes because, because-

But that train of thought, and in fact all trains of thought, dissipated as a hound plowed into him,  
panting heavily and flipping over in its excitement, eyes glued onto the new, scrawny target that  
it wanted to sink its teeth into, to tear and rip and-

Instinct had never been kind to Wilson in the past. He had always been unlucky, set upon by  
four to five hounds all alone and not making it out of the massacre, but after awhile one learns  
how to drag an attacker down with them. And he hadn't exactly been anticipating this event in  
any way, but maybe he had just forgotten about preparing for it to happen, waiting for something  
to happen, something to come lunging in to slit his throat and. Well, his weapon had been ready  
for awhile and the hound hissed a pained out death cry before collapsing in front of him, the  
dark, shadowy blade cutting through its hide in its fall.

He couldn’t remember making it, maybe before now and he had just forgotten it, but he's held a  
sword like this before, he's tinkered with one, experimented with dreams and nightmares to  
create an impossible weapon that breathed from his own will. And for a second the string of  
thought wormed into his mind, wondering when, why, where, but the hounds barks broke him  
out of it and Wilson moved.

It was a hack and slash, the hounds massive and strong as they rushed about, snapping at  
moving objects and each other, the defenders using their individual weapons to crack canine  
skulls and break hardened bone. There was no order, and wasn't that like back then, alone and  
hunted and being set upon by a hungry pack, readying a weapon and knowing death was  
coming to greet you?

Except he wasn't the center focus, there were other distractions this time around, colorful frantic  
living things that caught a hounds eyes and narrowed their focus and maybe he took advantage of that, maybe he didn't seem like the biggest or best threat, but the sword was loud, a force that  
took shape and it was a visceral, personal weapon, something that sliced with no resistance and  
soon enough the Varg, watching from the outskirts, lifted its massive head and howled for  
reinforcements, because two nightmare fueled swords would turn the tide and both individuals  
were decimating the pack to lower and lower numbers.

Off to the side, near to the wooden wall, a shout went up and there was a flash, a wave of heat  
and shrieking of hounds as one caught fire at the red hounds death. Someone was over there,  
strong enough to tackle down hounds and cause even worse chaos, partnered with another  
person swinging a morning star and shrieking out her own battle cries as she bashed in canine  
skulls. Another red hound was kicked off, the resulting blaze that caught on the hounds greasy  
hair reinforced when someone took a lighter to them, and bizarre thunder rolled for a second as  
lightning strikes rained down out of nowhere to fry the beasts into husks. The number of hounds  
was falling, and when the spiders started to crawl out of the woods, recruited by a child who felt  
they needed to help, the battle was just about won.

The Varg would have backed out, to fight another day, but its massive head was decapitated as  
it turned to leave. When its guards reared up to retaliate, their target dissipated into smoke, a  
shadow doppelganger brought to life, and its owner took them by surprise.

Maxwell had been lucky; his shadows seemed to be more appetizing than him. A quick glance  
around told him that they were practically done and he let his sword disintegrate, a mental  
weapon living off of bad memories and nightmares that he had full control over. Hounds were  
especially stupid and all of them would have to be culled; only the Varg was ever smart enough  
to turn tail on a losing battle, so these creatures will not be leaving by their own will. The red  
hounds he felt a little bad about maybe, because it had just been a sort of joke at the time, a  
‘what-will-this-do-if-I-stuck-this-inside-it’, and really he had never expected them to just explode  
upon death. Perhaps they were lucky and nothing valuable would have caught fire by the time  
this was all over.

A spider skittered by, on its way over to a hound covered in arachnids, and Maxwell had to fight  
the urge to give it a kick. No need to cause another fight, though the arrival of friendly monsters  
meant that the spider child had joined in against what everyone had told them to not do. The  
move probably didn't make a difference on turning the tide, but somebody in camp probably  
appreciated the child's gesture.

The hounds had thinned, though their large corpses littered the ground and obscured visibility.  
He could barely see the wall that surrounded camp, though it did look like it had been damaged  
in most areas. Unfortunate, because now they'd have to spend time gathering materials and  
fixing it and of course they'd make him help out, not even taking into account how he was not  
one for physical labor and he was old, for God sakes-

There was a scream from camp, high pitched and full of fear and pain and it was most definitely a child’s voice. That caught his attention, tensing up and immediately making his way back at a  
quick pace, past the remaining hounds fighting a losing battle with a horde of spiders, past the  
greasy haired corpses and the decimated wooden wall and trampled tents and-

Oh. Oh this was going to be bad.

~ ~ ~

The hounds had been unrelenting, a pushing wave of hairy bodies and sharp teeth that nipped  
and snapped at him in a frenzy of violence and bloodlust that drove them ever forward,  
trampling their own brethren in their haste. Wilsons’ weapon cut through them, slicing skin and  
spewing clotted blood from the creatures veins whenever it landed on them, no resistance or  
solidity to impede the blade in its slashing arcs. It was painfully easy, swinging such a weapon  
around and barely feeling the creatures he was decapitating, barely feeling its weight in his  
numb hands, the only sense of battle that reached up and jolted him being the splatters of blood  
that the sword created, hot and vivid and dark and alive-

And the word fuzzed, a static that muffled the air as the hounds rushed about, excited by the  
smell of blood and sweat and fear, frenzied into madness that left them vulnerable as they  
became overstimulated, high on scent and taste and feeling, an unnatural response to their  
unnatural conquest, brought away from their dens by the call of something powerful and  
controlling that focused their aggressive natures to a task they would not normally undertake.  
There were too many of them in one area, the excitement in their blood and many lunged at  
each other, ripping out hairy throats and kicking and throwing in a mob of chaotic beasts made  
to fight in a way unnatural to their calling, not even noticing or feeling death as their life violently  
ended.

And Wilson was in the middle of it, breathing haggardly and wheezing, because even with such  
a simple blade these wolves were big and heavy, tanks that plowed into him and bodily thrust  
him about, walls of muscle and teeth and hair, powerful and not at all daunted by his wavering  
strength of body.

The sword pulsed in his hands, twisted and violent and dripping with ichor, grabbling at his  
hands with withering bits of shadow, trying to crawl and dig into him, his mind pounding behind  
his eyes and an ache dragging up his spine, a curling slimy freeze that hooked his spine and he  
could just feel it, the twisting jab that shuddered through him, the blade dragging itself into  
another adversary, another creature that let out a wheeze of death over him before keeling over  
and exposing him to another, and another, and another, and-

And there was a clicking, the sounds piercing and sharp and clear in the midst of hound pants  
and barks and growls, and the flash of an arachnid raced by, digging in and mandibles extended  
as the hound next to it yipped, shaking its head in an effort to dislodge the spider from its face.  
The flashes of them grew more frequent, a nest that overflowed and he wondered where it was,  
it had to be so close, nearby and he had never noticed.

Another hound flew at him, a lunge that drove the air from his lungs and the blade dug into its  
chest, piercing and awful in its drive upward and he could feel its life leaving, for a second, a  
rush of heat as it's blood fell over him, twitching over onto the ground with a heavy thud and it  
was hard to breathe, bruised and crushed and his coughing, his scrambling upwards frantic and  
there was another hound, eyes rolling wide with the whites exposed as it dove at him, claws  
extended and then limp as he raised the blade unconsciously, the creatures massive body  
throwing him back in its death throes, and he could hear that skittering again, another spider  
shooting past him into the eyes of a hound, the shrieking call of it piercing his ears, and why  
were there so many, so many hounds and spiders that withered about, locked in a bloody fight,  
how did he get here, he couldn't remember, couldn't remember, the blade a heartbeat in his  
hands and sucking life into a shadowy fire, raised and again used, over and over because  
where was he, this wasn't right, there were so many of them, a rushing wall of monsters that  
looked at him and he could feel them looking, could feel them accusing him as the sword  
entered another and another and why wasn't he running away-

It was such a loud sound, a rush of air and breath and stink as they rushed the sword, his  
sword, and it fed off of them, crushing and hungry and it was crawling up him, trying to consume  
him, trying to envelop him and he couldn't feel it, this numbness twittering its way up his arm  
and tightening around his skin, and the blood was a fuel, the fear a fuel that he couldn’t wrap his  
head around, because it was around him instead of otherwise and it twisted and the static  
bursts were dizzy affairs that garbled his vision, a wrapping figment of bleach that he could feel  
in his head, icily sloshing around in blankness that stuttered from life, gibberish in his own eye  
and Wilson could think, could think oh so clearly and it wasn't making sense, a distortion of  
figures around him and a creeping vine of black and terror tearing up his arm, a force of its own  
that grinded his skin and leaked from his ears as it bred and he could feel it, could feel it trying  
to-

And then there was a shrieking halt and stutter and thrust of pain, because something had  
grabbed it, had sunken fangs deep and something was screeching in his head and the blade  
ripped through the hounds maw, skull slicing away with ease as he jerked his hand back, the  
sword gripped tightly and pounding in his hand, a dragging sense of dizziness from the sight of  
his own blood, beading up and around a spear of ivory hooked in his skin and it was  
unconscious fear, adrenaline pounding and he had his other hand wrapped around the fang, the  
sword dragging on the ground and blackening the earth and him stumbling back, ignored for the  
moment as spiders criss-crossed on the grass, tearing out the offending object and tossing  
away, hand wet in his own life and he was trembling, hissing as the pain rolled in his gut, deep  
and boiling and rising up, flares of earlier injury of bruising covering and pushing and he couldn't  
think, a thick frantic wave filling his head, a push of heat and fuzz against the back of his eyes  
and, and it hurt, a crushing feeling that fought the crawling shadows in his vision, the sword  
screaming, vulgar and violent in his head as the world wobbled and wavered around him, one  
hand at his head, clawing and whispering and everywhere as the silhouettes rose and melted  
and pulled together in a wet mess of earth and bone and flesh and blood and-

There was a sound, high and whistling and steady, something other than a whisper and the  
spiders, the spiders were everywhere, the ground withering with them, as if the earth was not of  
dirt but a living hive of arachnids, white eyes watching and something bucked away from him,  
huge and hairy and a crying whimper as it collapsed, and he wobbled, sword hissing in the  
spider nest of dirt and fear, buzzing and numbed as the sound repeated, something there and  
looking, widened and open and concerned, short and tall and it moved, slowed by nothing and  
everything, a black figure covered in eyes as it looked up at him, full of faint whispers and  
pushing hands that clutched his shoulders, small and easy and vulnerable, a spider that wasn't  
watching him, the others away, the earth roiling around as another mound howled, hair tangled  
by dark speared legs that withered to the side, and the sword muttering, dusty hands tangled in  
his fingers and up his arm, tugging and pushing and pulling and wanting to move, wanting to  
rush, lunge, hissing and cackling and the whispers rushed forward and-

And the scream thrust him awake, stumbling back and blinking away the darkness and seeing,  
seeing-

A spider, a very big spider, a spider crying in pain-

No no no no no, a child, a young child, a child he knew, a child whose approached him before, a  
crying child, a child holding a limp arm and bleeding, bleeding out, bleeding into the grass and,  
and-

And the sword was guttural, tightening around his arm and piercing the ground, dripping with  
blood, hissing and hissing and hissing as he stumbled another step back, feeling his throat  
constrict and breath stutter and wheeze as he wavered, dizzy and staring, staring down at, at,  
at-

And then there was a rush, things, figures, others suddenly there and crowding and filling the  
space, mass that wavered in the grass and something pushed him roughly back, a shadow  
standing in front of him, sturdy and tense and taking a step towards him, sound pushed at him,  
loud and accusing and aggressive and hostile and full of heavy, violent anger-

And the sword burned, tiny hooks peeling his hand, gripping and not letting go, and he took  
another step back, the figure pushing forward, raising something, something long and tall and  
sharp-

And then there was someone behind him, someone gripping his shoulder and one of his arms,  
the one with the sword, and someone was talking, fast and loud and muffled and-

And the hand around his arm tightened and he dropped the sword, staring blankly as it  
dissipated with a whisper, a wheeze of air and blood and emotion that wrapped up his brain and  
he was shaking, tremors snapping up his spine, he could feel his jaw set tight, teeth grinded together, rasping in air and staring at the ground, the green grassed ground, the stable, still ground and-

And something restrained him, arms crossing and crushing and still and he realized he'd been  
struggling, not enough air in his lungs and he tried to kick out, flailing for a moment as he was  
pulled back, dragged and he was hissing in pain, arm flaring in fire and his insides scraping  
together, not seeing anything in front of him because it was blank, a nothing that couldn't be  
comprehended and he shivered and gasped and tried, tried to blink and see and hear and think-  
But the crushing wall was over him, pushing down and pulling up and digging in his head and it  
was gibberish, high pitched and tearing and a shrieking hiss of laughter that echoed and broke  
and shattered to screams and he couldn't hear it, couldn't hear the voice, tense and desperate  
and concerned, he couldn't hear it, he didn't want to hear it, no no no no no-

And then it was dark, shuffling and he stuttered, gasping as his throat ached, raw and ragged  
and painful, the voice firmer, and he could feel the confinement, arms held tight and back  
pressed into another, held still and it was the tent, he knew the tent, it was his tent-

He was breathing again, haggard and wheezing and hissing, sound oh so quiet besides the  
voice, something there, behind him, deep and quiet and clear, cut through with nothing,  
incomprehensible but droning, a steady flow that was grounding, focused and real-

Wilsons heartbeat slowed, breathing in deeply and hesitantly, feeling himself limp in someone's  
arms, everything slowing down and stopped, his arms pulled uncomfortably across his chest  
and restraining hands holding him still, waiting. He was shaking, shivers tripping up his spine  
and trembling through his limbs, numb and a weakness that dragged from his chest and pulled  
him, down and down and down and-

There was a jolt, someone shaking him for a moment, the voice deep and tense, saying  
something, slow and muffled to his ears and he didn't respond, because what? What? What?!

And the silence stretched, him limp and weak and nothing, nothing nothing nothing, a slow sigh,  
breath against his neck, and it was all happening, a realness that brushed over his mind and  
just thinking of it brought the aching, a pounding behind his eyes and the heat of the wound on  
his arm, the pressure stabs on his ribs and back, and he wheezed out something, a cry of pain  
as he breathed again, the strands of shock pulling away to unveil pain, and the someone  
moved.

Slow, vice grip on his shoulders, wavering as the someone kept him standing, legs trembling  
and focused on the pain, an itching scar of a hook digging in and clawing and hitching into his  
sides, and it hurt. They were there, pulling his arm up for a second to examine it, and it hurt,  
something remembered for a second, of tooth and eye and tear, and he startled them, a hissing  
sob as he closed his eyes, the darkness useless against the dragging pain that itched and withered with shadow leeches, the static buzzing for a second before banished by the voice, low  
and rough and cold. He wanted to collapse, to fall, legs weak and aching, but they kept him  
standing, low hum of a voice that he couldn’t take the energy to understand, a slow mumbling,  
and he was crying, a wheezy sound, and he said something, a quiet sound rough from disuse  
and stress and pain, and the person stilled, hand gripping his shoulder tightly.

It was a plea, a pitiful thought given voice, because he could feel it, a memory brushing against  
his brain, wanting him to think, to remember it, of blood and sword and shadow and child-

And he didn't want to, not now, no no no, it swirled around and rang in his ears, buzzing with  
effect and shadows and he didn't open his eyes, shut tight and tensing for a second, a wave of  
emotion caught in his throat and stuttering his breath, a sudden feeling to move, to find  
something, to end it-

And then he was restrained once more, tight against someone's chest, face in their shirt, the  
smell of hound and blood and sweat strong and real, the voice low and denying, a curt and firm  
“No, not ever again.”, and he sobbed, hissing in a breath because this wasn't right, he was  
allowed that, he could be nothing for a moment, he knew this person could do it, they've done it  
before, he remembered, he remembered pleading and begging because everything had hurt  
then, so many mistakes that left him to die slowly and painfully, and they had ended it, quick and merciful, a crushing of cracked skull or call of fanged, bloodthirsty shadow, and why did they not do it now-

Wilson was so, so tired, weight pulling his mind downward and body weak from exhaustion,  
from the ongoing habit of insomnia, from self served starvation, from the stress of everything  
piling up and up and up and.

And he calmed, a steady beat that he could hear in their chest, steady and real and warm, and  
he stilled, breathing slowing as everything settled into motionlessness. The silence wasn't true,  
only inside the dark tent; the outside worlds voice loud and rushed and crowded. Wilson opened  
his eyes, blinking for a moment and then closing them again, just breathing and blank. The  
person was quiet, keeping him still and against them, not as tense as before and mind turning  
over the situation. Everything was far away, the only real thing being the one in front of Wilson,  
the person who had a heartbeat and who was breathing almost in time with him, the person he  
remembered and knew, though that was a blocked thought, a blankness that he didn’t want to  
push through, because the thought of differences between two memories was astoundingly  
heavy and full, and all he wanted to focus on, right now at this instant in time, was this warm  
person against him, this anchor of reality that held him down and made him a part of the world.

~~~

The wound on his arm stung. Wilson picked at the bandaging absentmindedly, the hasty done  
wrapping already loose and dirtied. He knew he should take care of it, he's wrapped his own  
wounds before, but…not right now. Not right now. His breaths were still shaky, a dull ache in his chest and shrinking around his ribs that felt bruised and tender. Another thing he should take care of, because broken bones, ribs, punctured organs, they could be serious. He knew that all too well; dying by not taking care to heal himself was something he'd engaged in often.

But not right now. He could keep going, every intake of air harsh and burning and painful, a constant that tried to distract him from other, more unsavory things.

They were talking about him, outside. He wasn't stupid and he had ears; Wilson can hear them,  
especially when someone got loud. They argued, a bickering that swept back and forth, blame  
placing and pointing of fingers, all because of…

Well, because of him. The thought, a chained memory pulled slowly into the light, something  
brushing him by before…before he shook his head aggressively, closing his eyes to the  
darkness and feeling his throat close up. He didn’t want to; not right now, not right now, not right  
now-

It faded, him pushing it away and forgetting, forgetting, deteriorating away, shrouded by the  
dusk and the weeds. It still slithered there, he knew it did, he knew he had done something,  
something wrong and awful and painful and-

But it was willful ignorance, wasn't it, a pushing away and ignoring as if faded from view? Was  
that better, was this better? A chaotic mess of thoughts and feelings that scurried around in his  
skull, thickened and battered and so, so loud, an aching pounding behind his eyes and  
throbbing in his head. It was empowered by his fatigue, exhaustion that dragged on his limbs  
and pulled him down, a sluggish crawl that buzzed with anxiety and fear.

Wilsons arm was starting to throb, a sticky heat that intensified the pain, and he held it close to  
his body, pressure against the bandaging. He hadn't looked at it when it was wrapped, had kept  
his eyes firmly shut, mind slithering around in tiredness and pain and shock and panic,  
distracted only by the pressure of the hand and the droning voice of the one trying to care for  
him. His bleeding had finally stopped, colored the messy wrapping, but it ached either way and  
he remembered what had done it, what had dug its fangs into him and what had fallen back  
when the blade had cut through-

A roll of thunder startled him, the voices outside fading as rain started to fall. The pitter patter of  
it hitting his tent sent a chill up his spine and he crept under his blankets, curling onto his side  
and hiding himself away. Wilson hated the rain.

Even unmoving, being on his side hurt, a coughing fit overtaking him for a moment. The pain  
afterwards intensified and he softly hissed as he curled up tighter, breathing shallow and quick  
before the wave passed. His breath was wheezy and it felt harder than normal to take in air, but  
he ignored that. The pain faded to a dull ache, throbbing spikes with every intake of air, but it  
was manageable. Being here gave him a good view on his pain management, didn’t it?

And it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve this, because he did. Whether or not he remembered,  
whether or not he had memory of the last few hours, he probably did deserve this.

These gaps in memory meant something, and he didn’t know what occurred in them. Not  
wanting to know what happened in them didn’t give him the right to avoid consequence, did it? It  
wasn’t a nice thought.

Wilson put his hands in his hair, drawing them through the rat nest and feeling the blanket warm  
up with his breath. A grounding point, an anchor, a distraction for just a few moments, because  
the raw burning static in his arm, the spikes snaking up his spine and into his brain, was not  
enough and the twisted, tight feeling in his chest, the bleeding stabbing pain at every breath,  
was not enough. The throbbing behind his eyes hurt, his arm hurt, his chest hurt, everything  
taunt yet lethargic, a pull of nerves and muscles that felt so tightly wound and stressed. The tug  
of knots in his fingers and the feeling of his unkempt hair was not enough either, but it was  
therapeutic, a silent lull for just a moment as he pulled and loosened, a steady pressure.

Another roll of thunder passed overhead, the flash of lighting that crashed down a few miles  
away bright enough to light his tent up for a moment, a harsh blinding light that he missed  
behind closed eyes. The sound was loud, the thunders voice deep and enthrallingly bitter, and  
Wilson tried to ignore the shrill squeak he made at the sound, a spike of terror twisting up his  
spine. It was rational, to fear lightening, especially when one has been struck by it before, over  
and over until the rain passed, a withering pile of bones and charred flesh seizing up at the pain  
and the shock that overpowered the limbs, static arching up into the brain and a mess of nerves  
not firing correctly, stuttered and buzzed and-

And he was trembling, hands balled into fists in his hair, eyes shut tight, because he hated the  
rain, hated thunder, hated lightening, he hated the rain so, so much-

And the clear pitter patter became a wash of sound, a crushing downpour that drowned out the  
ambience of the night. For a moment, Wilson wondered if his tent would be able to take it, would  
not get completely soaked and then come crashing down, a mess of wet and fabric and  
structure with him inside, but then he pushed the thought away. If such a thing happened,  
then…

It didn’t matter. No one would hear it in the rain, and in the end, no one would care.

Wilson was not stupid. He could acknowledge that he was unreasonable, unpredictable,  
untrustworthy, but he was not unintelligent. Not to the degree where he wouldn’t be able to hear  
what others said around him. Yes, he forgot it most of the time, but the times when he was clear  
headed, when he could sort out his thoughts for a few moments and feel time move in order again, like now, was when he could understand things. And he understood that he wasn't well  
liked.

Maybe there was some trying, but that was obligation, wasn’t it? He couldn’t even remember  
any of their faces, all blank shadow figures, the names sometimes so far away and sometimes  
just on the tip of his tongue. Coming here, to this camp, being around people again, it was  
detrimental to everyone involved, wasn’t it? He could barely take care of himself anymore, more  
often dying by his own mistakes than anything else, so why did he put that responsibility on  
others, make them stress because of his actions?

For Gods sake, he had attacked a child-

And that was enough, he shut down the train of thought quickly, a wandering of the mind that  
had gotten too stressed. The thread was pushed away, forgotten and left once more, a  
protective walled barrier raised subconsciously. The lull afterwards was more confusion  
induced, but his hands were still in his hair and he focused on that, breathing in deeply for a  
moment before wincing and regretting the action. The pain intensified, a hot flash of nausea and  
sudden chocking of the lungs before the stutter stopped and he could breath again, the thrill of  
pain sharp and hooks dragging inward.

Taking a moment to pull one of his hands away from his head and to carefully skirt under his  
clothing, over his chest, repulsed at his own state of uncleanness for a moment, it took a second  
to find the cause. There was a raised knob on his left side, right where his ribs were, and just a  
light touch brought pain, the skin warm and swollen. Wilson slowly pulled his hand back, fingers  
twitching with a tremor that skittered up his spine, before he let his arm rest. Another breath of  
air, a small test, and the coughing hurt, hacking that made him light headed and tired out. His  
breathing had to be short, hasty breaths, even though it still hurt and now it felt harder, as if no  
air was reaching him for a moment, a dreaded flash of panic, and then it evened out into rapid  
intakes, short but steady, and he felt so tired, this exercise exhausting and a leaden feeling  
overtaking his limbs.

He knew what it was.

Wheezing in more air, knowing this will take awhile, knowing it could take days and days and  
days before he'd finally collapse, Wilson just couldn’t care anymore. He was tired, exhausted  
and fatigued, a useless pile of flesh that had no positives in it anymore. He knew this, knew it  
firmly and solidly, and yet…what was he to do about it anyway?

Shuddering, the blanket warm over him and the sounds of the rain soft and calming, Wilson let  
himself relax, mentally and physically bogged down. The dullness faded away, a quiet darkness  
filling up and curling around and he fell asleep. 

~~~

It was the voices that woke him up.

Raised, hostile and bristled in offense, pitched and grinding and so, so loud. It had been a  
sudden wake, a jolt of reality because, for a moment, Wilson could have sworn that he had been  
dreaming. That practice had been long forgotten and he hadn't dreamt of anything for a long  
time, more often having bizarre half awake nightmares that spurred stressed sleepwalking and  
night terrors. He couldn’t remember it, only a vague hint of something else, of color and hands,  
but it left him shivery and awake.

Or, it was something else that made him start to tremble. Nausea, a wave of it curdling his  
stomach, and his injured arm felt sticky and hot, hand twitching for a moment and his fingers  
buzzing, the tips numb. It ached, a twisted throbbing that grinded over and over. His breathing  
hadn't gotten any better, short and shallow and a shifted open stab with every movement, but it  
wasn’t any worse. Not yet anyway.

Outside, in the wet, humid morning, the voices raised and lowered, unpredictable and tense. He  
could almost hear it, from the aggravated hisses and irritable whispers, to the sudden shouting  
and violent yells; his name was there, hidden and on the tip of the tongue, and Wilson could just  
feel the stress, invading his tent because they were looking at it, looking at him, judging him,  
and he had to cover his eyes with the palms of his hands, pressure and discomfort at the action,  
buzzing in his ears as he grinded his teeth together, trying to transfer his focus elsewhere, to not  
think about what was happening outside, because he knew, but at the same time it was blank  
space, an unknown factor, a why and what and how that crowded his mind.

And then a sudden noise, of someone opening the tent door and shuffling around, securing the  
flap and letting the tent fill with fresh air and bright light. Wilson froze, only broken by slight  
tremors and his own short gasping for breath, heartbeat loud in his ears and fear pulsing behind  
his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thats it! All I wrote, and after that I took a break then started on the Previously Punned series.
> 
> Rereading, I can see what I took from the experience and how I applied certain things differently in other stories.
> 
> So, a quick wrap up of what I had planned but decided to not write:
> 
> Webber survived, abet with one less limb. Dark Swords are very dangerous and need to be handled carefully as they'll turn on their owner.
> 
> They held a quick trial, in which a few survivors I will not name wanted either a death sentance or exile. However, insanity was pleaded, as well as an apology that was given to Webber, who forgave their attacker.
> 
> Wickerbottom realized that Wilson needed to be watched, and, after much consideration, decided Maxwell would be the one to do so. After some arguements, the point to make the former King shut up and accept his fate was the fact that he was the one that caused this all in the first place by bringing everyone to this world.
> 
> After that, I hadn't decided what to do about Wilson's broken rib and punctured lung, so best guess I have is he died and resurrects on a touchstone.
> 
> I did have a true ending in mind, but never planned that far ahead. Said ending was where somehow a machine back to the modern world was constructed/found and everyone was making their way through.
> 
> However, Maxwell was not going back and Wilson decided he wouldn't either.
> 
>  
> 
> And that would have been it, if I hadn't lost inspiration to continue writting. Oh well, I have enough projects to focus on now. This was good practice at least.


End file.
